


So Ends This Day

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro





	So Ends This Day

The ledge is cold. Its chill creeps through his clothes, along his spine, up his neck. He feels it keenly, upon his skin, within his blood. He sees it in every exhale of his tremulous breath.

Madara sits on a skyscraper ledge, amid a city bathed in twilight. He doesn't wonder how he got here. He knows he did it on will alone.

His hands are shaking. They do not stop. Not even when he reaches into the right-hand pocket of his black jeans. Not even when he retrieves his cigarettes and the lighter gifted to him for his eighteenth birthday. His thumb traces the eagle inlaid onto its dark surface. He fumbles with the pack. It takes four tries to successfully light his cigarette.

It doesn't help. Madara had hoped, that the nicotine would help him breathe. That the familiar bitterness would eradicate the disgust upon his tongue. But he can still taste it. The mud. The earth. His vomit. His blood.

The blood lies everywhere. It is caked in his hair, on his lips. It stains his shirt and his jeans. It is all over him. Madara draws a shaky breath. His exhalation brings with it a broken cry and cigarette smoke. The cry terrifies him. It sounds so _weak._ He cannot _bear_ being weak.

He watches his breath mist in the cold. He watches the smoke from his cigarette rising and swirling amid shadows, dancing upward, dissipating. He wishes they would take his memories with them.

Madara _hates_ remembering. But, against his will, he _does._

The woods. His face in the dirt. His arm twisted excruciatingly behind his back. The hand over his mouth. The breath upon his neck.

Madara remembers them. Hands, sweat-slick and greedy all over his skin. Fingers along his ribs, rough, threatening. Hands that mark his flesh, mottling pale skin with dark bruises. Hands that shove his face into the ground. Hands that close around his throat, pin his wrists, spread him open.

He inhales cigarette smoke like oxygen. He shouldn't remember this. He shouldn't _know_ this, but he does. 

He knows their scents. The way they taste. He remembers there were four. Remembers how they held him down. Sometimes, his face was in the dirt, hips pulled upward, knees kicked apart. Sometimes, his back was on the ground, legs spread wide.

He remembers every minute. Heat amid cold. Metal and calluses and nails that bit. The tears on his face. The blood between his thighs. The stench of puke and sweat and cum in the air. The sounds they made when they came inside him, all over him. Pain. Fear. Disgust. 

_Humiliation._

Because _he_ came too. Over and over and over.

  


* * *

  


The sky begins to pink. Madara averts his gaze. He is afraid to watch the sun rise. Afraid that its beauty may entice him to linger. He does not _want_ to remain here, shaking with guilt and humiliation upon this cold, lonely ledge.

He stands. His entire body trembles with the strain. He wants to throw up again, but he has nothing left. He is bereft. Of comfort. Of security. Of dignity. He is utterly alone.

He steps off the ledge. He lets himself fall, and he does so backward, so that he faces the sky and not the ground. His fingers are closed tightly around the lighter. It is the smallest of comforts.

Madara closes his eyes. Draws a deep breath. His lungs are cold. He can hear the world beginning to wake around him. His trembling ceases.

He breathes out. And he becomes one with the earth.


End file.
